


Only A Girl...

by elisi



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi/pseuds/elisi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle in the alley takes an unexpected turn. (Set immediately after the fade-to-black of NFA.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stalled WIP. It might get finished some day, since I know how it's going to end, but I have no idea how to get there. So don't hold your breath, sorry.

It's dark. The rain lashes down, washing their bloodied faces and making it hard to distinguish their foes. Angel knows that Gunn went down a while ago, but he has no space for grief, no time for mourning. All there is in the world is fighting - thrust, twist, duck, stab, move on. He knows Spike is on his right, Illyria on his left and he keeps an absent note of where the dragon is positioned in the sky. But no matter how many he kills, they just keep coming. No relief for muscles that are now screaming.

Then the dragon swoops down, and as he ducks its deadly flames, he sees Illyria gracefully leap onto the neck. Swearing he tries to jump after them, but it's no use. Then the onslaught breaks forth again and he must continue fighting.

Suddenly there is a bright light - so searing that Angel automatically cowers and tries to shield himself. A fraction of a second later he realises that the light comes from the dragon that is now swerving dangerously between the buildings in the narrow alley. Seconds later it crashes to the ground in front of them, crushing untold demons under its bulky mass. Illyria is perched proudly on the neck, her hands twisting the head at an unnatural angle, letting the strange light stream forth. Angel senses Spike coming up next to him, limping, his face furrowed in incomprehension. "What the hell is she doing?"

The older vampire shrugs, half-remembered knowledge surfacing. "Tapping the dragon's magic?"

He notices the black burn marks on Illyria's unbreakable hide, and thinks to himself that it's not fair that vampires are so flammable.

A smile breaks out over the God's face and suddenly the sound of thunder rolls along the ground. Then darkness breaks out in front of them, like a column of smoky ink, licking the wet tarmac. A shape grows out of the black; hesitant and insubstantial at first, then slowly gathering volume until the figure is clear.

Angel stares. It can't be...

In front of them stands a middle-aged, silver haired man. His face is a blank, and his suit fits like a glove. In his left hand he holds a briefcase. But two large horns grow out of his forehead. Large and solid, they twist backwards in decreasing loops.

Behind him, Illyria says triumphantly: 'I brought you The Ram."

The Ram smiles pleasantly and looks around. "How... nice to be here," it says, before raising an arm. With a wave the demon army, thronging to get past the dragon, disappears. At the same time, the light turns off. "I don't think we need that anymore, do you?" The Ram continues, glancing over its shoulder at Illyria.

Angel reels inwardly as he blinks in the sudden gloom. He is finally face to face with a Senior Partner. Although he has no doubt that its real face is very different. Question is: Can he kill it? His hand clenches around the hilt of his sword and The Ram looks at him sharply. "Do not think you can kill me, Angel. But..."

They lock eyes, then The Ram continues. "...I _will_ offer you a deal."

It is only a year since the last 'deal' - and look where he ended up. Angel begins to shake his head, but The Ram holds up a hand. "This one is different. If you agree, we will leave this dimension - forever! We will close down every branch, stop the apocalypse - more than you could ever hope to accomplish yourself."

Angel's eyes narrow. "What do you want me to do?"

A smile that would have made Lindsey MacDonald look like an honest man. "Only to kill... _this_!"

The left hand containing the briefcase stretches out, and the case becomes enshrouded in the same kind of strange impenetrable blackness that enveloped the figure before. It swirls slowly and then pulls back, leaving in its stead a large woven basket. A small hand can be seen waving above the edge, but that is all.

Angel freezes. It can't be...

He can almost feel the wheels in Spike's brain turn. "Didn't Darla once...?"

"Shut up!" he replies. Looking at the creature in front of him he asks: "You want me to kill the child?"

"Seems a small price, doesn't it?" The Ram says blandly. After a small hesitation, it continues. "_Kill_ is actually not quite accurate. We want you to sire her and then keep her alive. As a... legacy of our work here. If she dies, we return. Those are the terms."

If Angel was still capable of being shocked, this would have rendered him speechless. As it is, he thinks he understands in part what they're trying to do. Worn out he rubs his face, absentmindedly noticing the blood on his hand. Weariness lies on him like a stone mantle - he had thought that he would now be done with tough decisions. The acts he has committed to get to this point - those whose deaths he has ruthlessly caused - he can feel them weigh him down, almost to the point of blotting out his soul. But none of those were innocent.

He still remembers the feel of the infant Connor in his arms, how he was ready to give up the entire world to save him. Could he do the opposite? Destroy and warp something so pure? He needs to buy time...

"Why her?" he asks, thinking that maybe she is the daughter of a president or king. Maybe an immortal like Eve.

The Ram does a good impression of a shrug. "She is nobody. A little orphan, with no extended family. If not killed now, she will die of leukaemia when she's 23. Our soothsayers were very definite on that point."

Angel swallows. There is something wrong - something horribly wrong. He can't fool himself - he could never do what they ask, and he wonders what this child could accomplish in a few short years, that would make the Senior Partners ready to give up this whole world. He suddenly realises that he needs to protect this child, more than anything else. He shifts imperceptibly, and senses Spike tense beside him. Casting a swift look at Illyria, he can see her crouched like a coiled spring on the immobile dragon's neck. Slowly he takes a step forward. "And if I decline...?"

The Ram smiles. The smile keeps widening, until its face is nearly parted in two, its teeth lengthening and turning yellow. It is a hideous sight, but Angel ignores it, jumping just as a long, bony hand stretches into the basket. Illyria leaps at the same time, latching onto the macabre being, now more animal than human, wrapping her strong, steely hands around the creature's neck. Angel snatches the basket and jumps clear, just as Spike lands a kick to The Ram's middle. It folds and then folds again, smog-like tendrils emanating, before suddenly it's gone, leaving nothing but empty air.

Angel stares at the void, then his eyes slowly travel down to the baby. She's shivering, only wrapped in a dirty blanket and her tiny face is twisting into a cry.

Spike looks at him, eyebrow raised. "What now?"

Angel doesn't know. The night is black and cold, and they have nowhere to go. Then the baby begins to cry.

Carefully he puts down the basket, wraps the baby up as much as he can and cradles her under his coat. Then he looks at his two companions. "I think... this girl is the key to everything!"


	2. Chapter 2

Even with Angel's persistent knocking, it takes a while before anyone answers. The night is still dark, but the rain has stopped and it's as quiet as it can get in a bad neighbourhood. Thankfully the baby has fallen asleep, although she still shivers occasionally, the thin blanket offering little warmth and Angel's coat even less.

When the door finally opens, it reveals a sullen, half-asleep youth, unimpressed with Angel's bloodied face. Then he catches sight of Spike and Illyria, gingerly carrying Gunn's body, and his face twists in a worried frown.

"Hey man, don't come bringin' no trouble here!" he protests as Angel pushes past him into the shelter.

"Go get Anne - _now_!" The kid, automatically obeying the voice of someone accustomed to commanding, runs off, and Angel waves in the others. They carry Gunn up the stairs and put him down on the sofa there, a sofa Gunn in all likelihood helped carry in...

Angel closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.

_Focus. Focus. Don't think about the past._

But yet he remembers the first time he came here. Nothing much has changed - Anne obviously spends her money where it matters most and not on interior design. He flashes back to his comfortable penthouse at Wolfram &amp; Hart - now destroyed of course - thinking that one of his sofas could probably pay for this entire room.

_Luxury equals evil. He should have known. He_ did _know. Darla always liked a view..._

The room is dark, but none of them needs light to see. Dull street light from outside haltingly filters through the windows, as though hesitant to illuminate the dead figure. The otherworldly warriors standing by his head and feet lend the scene a chilling air, like a scene out of a Greek tragedy. Any moment now their faces will become actual masks and the baby will turn into a prop...

Then Spike shifts uncomfortably.

"Do you know if there's a bathroom somewhere? I think I got a fang or something stuck in my leg."

"Down there I think," Angel replies, and Spike limps off. There is the faint sound of hushed voices from upstairs, and then footsteps.

Moments later, Anne comes into the room - a dressing gown hastily thrown over pyjamas. The ordinariness of her appearance brings everything back in focus in Angel's head, like his inner eye has been adjusted. She automatically flicks on the light and then stops abruptly when she catches sight of the figure on the sofa. Her hand flies to her mouth as she blinks back tears.

"Oh my God." she whispers. Then turns accusing eyes on Angel. "This is your fault, isn't it?"

"Yes." he answers simply. "I'm sorry to intrude, but we had nowhere else to go. And it's probably not safe for you to have us here, so we'll go as soon as we can. I was just hoping you could... help us."

"_Help you?_" she asks, voice ascending, incredulous. "What with? Funeral expenses?"

Her outburst obviously gets through to the baby, who suddenly starts crying. Anne's eyes go wide.

"I don't have time to explain all the details, but we're in need of some baby things - and you were the only one I could think of. We'll have to skip town as soon as we can, but it's not easy with a screaming infant."

She's thinking hard he can tell, as he tries to rock the baby back to sleep. But instead of any of the questions he was expecting, all she says is, "You're taking the baby _with_ you?"

Before he can answer the baby starts wailing again, her little hands and feet struggling against the blanket.

Anne looks uncertain, then makes up her mind. "I think we had some baby stuff donated last week. I'll see if I can find it." She glances at Illyria and frowns. "Why don't you go in the kitchen, it's more comfortable there."

 

The kitchen is cluttered and slightly worn-down, but clean and tidy. The walls are painted a warm terracotta and the feel is overwhelmingly one of homeliness. Against this backdrop Illyria stands out like an extra from 'Alien', but after a swift scornful glance around, she sits down silently as Anne brings in what she has found for the baby. Everything contrasts so sharply with the start of the night, that Angel has a feeling of having been removed to a different dimension.

But life is never that easy, as he has learned time and again. The eye of the storm can be surprisingly volatile.

Angel notices Anne's amazement as she watches him adeptly wash and dress the baby, and to distract her he briefly explains what they know about their charge. Hearing that the shelter might be in danger, Anne calmly gets out an impressive array of weapons from a cupboard. As she tries to find some holy water, she instead discovers several baby bottles and some not-quite-out-of-date formula milk. Angel seizes these and soon the baby is drinking happily, Illyria watching in silent fascination from across the table.

Angel is grateful for Anne's silence and the fact that she has not asked how he came by his baby-handling skills. As it is, he is fighting a losing battle against his memories. They crowd around him, the past overlapping the present again and again, so he isn't quite sure what he's seeing.

_Tiny hands waving. Little legs kicking. The whole giant enormity of caring for such a tiny person... all the hopes and dreams and wonders that he has spent the last few years so carefully purging, are all back in force. Not that this little girl is his of course, but he has a terrible feeling that this is another ploy by The Powers. Yet another baby to care for and protect. For the briefest of moments he wonders if it might be an apology - a chance to witness a child grow up, a substitute for the years he missed out on with Connor. But even as the thought surfaces, he throws it away. Because this is also a baby with an unknown destiny... a baby who might change the fate of the world. Who is she? He can tell that she is all human, and that is as much as he allows himself to dwell on her for now. Wolfram and Hart will want her back - but how can he protect her? And where Wolfram and Hart lead, others will follow. He does a quick run-through of possible enemies, even as he worries that they have nowhere to go. _

He glances down. The baby must have been utterly starved. She is drinking with great vigour, her eyes half-closed in pleasure.

_Angel has spent a hundred years in hell, but no pain was ever as acute as this - a physical reminder of what he lost. And tonight was to have been the end - the end of making choices, the end of that daily struggle to somehow do the right thing in a world of grey._

Spike comes into the kitchen and interrupts Angel's introspection. His limp is less pronounced and he's looking a lot cleaner - he's even got most of the blood off his duster. He smiles at Anne, who's making herself a cup of coffee.

"You must be Anne. Hope you don't mind, but I borrowed some of your first-aid stuff - had half a knife-blade stuck in my leg..."

His voice suddenly trails off and Angel looks up. Anne has grabbed a crossbow and is aiming it squarely at Spike's chest. Her face is as pale as a sheet of paper, but her voice is even and suffused with anger as she speaks: "Get the hell out of my shelter... _Spike_!"


End file.
